


Scars made of stars

by Swordsandthings



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, There are some meations of blood and bruises, it's not as bad as it seems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordsandthings/pseuds/Swordsandthings
Summary: Geralt is used to getting scars from his battles. What he isn't used to, is to have someone carry them too.Or the au where every time Geralt gets a scar it shows up on Jaskier's body
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 372





	Scars made of stars

No one quite knows when the scars started mirroring each other. Perhaps it had been a spell thrown by a sorceress. Or maybe it had been destiny itself. Perhaps it had been the strong bond that had grown between the white wolf and the fearless bard. Whatever it had been, it had been ignored somehow, just like the way Jaskier had stopped aging a while after he joined the witcher's side.

  
Since the beginning of time, Geralt got wounded. He took care of it himself. When Jaskier joined the witcher, he wondered why the man never asked for help when it came to cleaning up the cuts and blood.

  
A certain time, they were sitting by the fire. A small thing Jaskier had made after he realised they would have to sleep on the woods. Geralt grunted. His companion looked at him, seeing his struggles. The man in question was trying to reach a wound on his back with a crude cloth.

  
“Geralt, do you need help?” The man kept handling the task, ignoring his friend. Jaskier sighed. He walked closer to Geralt and snatched the cloth from him despite his protests and helped him. “I don’t get why you’re so stubborn when it comes to this. It’s not like I haven’t rubbed chamomile in your bottom before,” Geralt stilled for a while, muscles still tense. Jaskier got a mixture of honey and essential oils they had gotten a while ago. He let it seep through the cloth, making it softer on the skin. 

  
“Is it as bad as it feels?” Geralt asked.

  
“No. It’s more superficial, probably won’t even leave that big of a scar,” The bard had quickly learned that his companion was not fond of the scars that adorned his body. It had been shocking for him, he had always seen them as a way of showing stories, like letters on a paper sheet. They were a way of making events immortal. Jaskier had been slowly realising why Geralt didn’t like them. It wasn’t because they made him ugly. It was because they were a reminder, a way of showing him the awful beasts that lived on earth, most of them, human.

  
After Geralt was all patched up, they ate. Jaskier filling in the quiet of the woods with his lively chatting. Soon they were putting out the fire, leaving the embers to keep them warm. Jaskier took off his vest, keeping on his white undershirt. He was thinking about using his vest as tiny blanket, preparing himself to lull into sleep. 

  
“Jaskier–you're bleeding?”

  
“Nonsense, Geralt!” The man was feeling fine. No nasty cut or bruise aching on his skin, he touched his back and his hand came back, clean.

  
“But, go back,” Geralt forced Jaskier to turn around. He was left looking at a big red stain on his undershirt. Dread filled him, images from the past replaying on his mind. He was fast to yank the shirt, leaving the bard shivering in the night.

  
“What is it?” He questioned for lack of an answer.

  
“Theres a scar on your back. Same place as mine.”

* * *

  
The same event went on, repeating itself. Every time Geralt found a new deep cut on any part of his body he would find it reflected on the bard. With the pain came also guilt. The Witcher knew he was at fault for all the scars his friend was gaining, slowly destroying his soft skin.

  
“I don’t mind it. Makes people interested,” by people, he meant the ones he beaded with. Geralt knew how it was, in the beginning people would see it as sexy and mysterious, a while after it would make you dangerous. Only monsters carried that many scars, someone human would’ve died long ago.

  
The white haired male grunted, shuffling to the other side of the room they were sharing, that night. Jaskier had already forced him to bath and now was his turn. Geralt never entered the bathroom when the other man was using it. It was a part of respect, a way to keep them separate. They were already too close. Geralt dreaded the possibility of them getting any closer.

  
“Oh but Geralt!” Jaskier was standing by the bathroom door, almost naked. “Please try to not get any scars on your cock, I don’t think I could handle that.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

  
Questions about the effect had been lifted before. The most recent discourse was about what happened with a cut limb. If Geralt were too loose a finger, would Jaskier loose it too? Or would he just get a circular scar on the place of the cut. So far they didn’t know the answer and hoped they'd never find it. Though Geralt thought the second possibility was the most likely one. Whenever he got wounded, Jaskier only gained the scar, pain was never on him and blood rarely was there.

  
Other than the questions that the scars lifted they didn’t talk about it, not even during the nights where Jaskier would take care of Geralt’s wounds. Or the nights where Geralt would ask for Jaskier to take off his shirt or pants–sometimes both–so he could see his body. After the long minutes where he stared at the body he would always say, “You still look lovely,” even if it was said with a fake mocking tone, Jaskier would always have to swallow harder. The contraction of his throat, the way he took a longer breath of air, visible for the Witcher.

* * *

  
“Why'd you have to hit it?” Geralt asked sharply.

  
“I don’t know,” Tears were falling down Jaskier’s eyes. His arm was streched out to Geralt, the blood that hadn’t dried was dropping on his legs. “I though he was going to get you,” his voice was weak, merely a whisper.

  
“I had everything under control.”

  
They were at a bathroom once again. The place where they had been fighting wasn’t that far. Geralt had know it would be na awful task to take off the pieces of wood from Jaskier’s skin, he hadn’t wanted to do it in the wild, were they had less sterilized material.

  
“Stay still,” Geralt reflected his words by tightening his hold on Jaskier’s hand. He knew it was hurting him, probably more than it had when the pieces of wood had gotten in his skin, “Don't look, that will only make you squirm more.”

  
“Sorry,” The apology wasn’t only for his current mistake, it was for the one he had done in the past. He had thought it was the right thing, to get the tree branch that was on the floor and use it as a weapon. 

  
“No need for any of that now.” Geralt kept pulling out the pieces of wood, angling the oil lamp so he could get a better look at the wounds.

  
“If I loose my arm, you’ll have to play the lute for me,” a dry laugh left the bards lips. The witcher stopped his work to give Jaskier a blank and angry look, showing him that it was not funny to joke about that type of stuff.

  
It took some time to take off every piece that had obstructed Jaskier’s wounds, and some more to clean it. When they were finished Jaskier was eating a slice of bread with honey staring at his patched arm. Then he looked at Geralt’s, coughing filled the room.

  
“Your arm!” Jaskier’s voice was weak, still scratched from the coughing.

  
“what is it?” Geralt didn’t look down at his arm.

  
“You have new scars!” Geralt added another point to his long list of things that Jaskier knew and could be a potential clue of his love for him. It was something stupid he had started long ago. A while where he had realised he no longer remembered how much time it had passed since he had met the bard. “They look nice, like stars.”

  
“Just some random dots,” still the man’s cheeks were heating up.

  
Nights later Geralt was observing Jaskier arm under the candle lights. Absently he started tracing the bumps. Jaskier opened his eyes, smiling softly at his companion. They were sharing a bed, they had been short on coin and the room was cheaper like that.

  
“You get to touch my scars and I don’t get to touch yours?” his voice was soft when he spoke, still Geralt stopped. “i just don’t get why you don’t like them. I think you’re beautiful, even with them.”

  
“Do they make me look interesting?”

  
“I don’t think its that. It’s mostly your usual brooding that makes you interesting.” Jaskier laughed as he spoke. Geralt grunted. The younger man reached for the witcher's hand, interlocking their fingers. There were several nights were they had been together, both had high libidos that led them to share hand jobs during the loneliest nights. Geralt avoided the intimacy of the act at all cost, saying it was only for their pleasure, no other feelings were involved. For a long while, the bard believed that. Now, he knew he wasn’t the only one that had feelings.

  
White hair had spilled over Geralt's eyes, before he could brush it away, Jaskier did. Moments like those were what made him want to truly be with the other. He forced that away, he loved him, leading him to his death was not the point.

  
“Do you think with some ink, we could make them look like constellations? I once heard we are made of star dust. Did you know that?” Jaskier was now touching the dot like scars. Their noses were touching, eyelashes too, proximity was forgotten. Jaskier smiled weakly, the thin wrinkles of his skin showing. “Would you feel better then?”

  
“hmm” Words were forgotten as Geralt mentally told his common sense to fuck off. He tried to close the gap between his lips and Jaskier’s. The later only inched back, smile deepening. He knew the game he was playing, he was too far gone to not partake in it. For a while it was just that, Jaskier inching away and Geralt drawing closer, like magnets that couldn’t seem to get in contact. To stop it, Geralt placed his hand in the back of Jaskier’s neck, making him stop his moving. At last, they kissed. It was shy at the beginning, just skin touching skin, then the bard bit Geralt bottom lip so the kiss could be deepened.

  
They were both rushing for air when they broke away from each others grasp. Seconds passed and Jaskier was holding Geralt’s face with both his hands, pushing him to his embrace once again.

  
And for once, Geralt started seeing the good in his scars. They could be made by monsters, but he got them because he was protecting the ones he cared for the most. Even if he was only a monster for everyone else too, he knew that he would always have people to remember him of his true nature

**Author's Note:**

> Was that last line too cheesy? Should I delete it lmao  
> Oh and sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my mother language


End file.
